One monster—being made.
“Do it,” I whisper, closing my eyes.
“It’s not the only way.” He hesitates.
“Do it.” I grit my teeth.
The needle pinches my arm, cold flows down to my fingertips. My body starts to shake uncontrollably as Nikolai stands in front of me and snaps his fingers, then whispers, “Let’s begin.”
Chapter One
“It was thus rather the exacting nature of my aspirations than any particular degradation in my faults, that made me what I was, and, with even a deeper trench than in the majority of men, severed in me those provinces of good and ill which divide and compound man’s dual nature.” —Robert Louis Stevenson
Maksim
Present…
I clench my hands over and over again.
The blood is gone, just like the body.
Izzy is sleeping next to me; I doubt she would hear a gunshot even if it was right next to her head, jolting her into chaos. She looks calm.
At peace.
The opposite of the war I have inside my soul, the monster is closer now, clawing, waiting to break free.
He warned me.
I should have listened.
But I knew how I had to do this; I knew that there was only one way—which is why I went to Nikolai in the first place.
He’s the only one who knows what happened that night and the ramifications of my choice since then.
He’s the only one who can monitor what I’ve done. He takes notes over every symptom, every emotion, and when the beast breaks free, I find myself resenting the calculating interest he has as he scribbles down notes then forces me to do the same.
Nobody knows I’m sick, and I intend to keep it that way—to keep my secrets from my cousins, the bosses, and the girl I love until death takes me, which, if Nikolai’s suspicions are to be believed, might just be sooner rather than later.
I always imagined that I would die young, not just because I was in line to become the next Sinacore boss, one of the most powerful families in the Cosa Nostra.
But because I don’t have the stomach for it.
I’m more lover than fighter.
I like fucking science. I mean, let me build a bomb before I pull a gun, and I’m giddy as hell—complete nerd, or as Izzy calls me, hot nerd with too much charisma. Whatever.
The bed moves as I sneak out of her room. A low creak on the floor makes its presence known. I wince, looking over my shoulder at Izzy one last time before opening the bedroom door and making my way down the hall.
I somehow feel like a werewolf ready to howl at the full moon. My body itches, it always itches now, and no matter how relaxed I am in my sleep, I always wake up clenching my fists, with tears running down my cheeks and absolutely no recollection of anything—until I read my journal.
I thought it would be easier this way.
Separating the violence.
My need to kill from my need to save and protect.
Now I know better.
Now I know the truth.
I have become the very thing I have always feared, and I have nobody to blame but myself.
I think about telling my best friend King—but he would probably shoot me in the face if he knew the truth on top of the fact that I was still sneaking into Izzy’s room.
Damn it, he’s the reason their dad cut down the tree I used to climb, so now I have to execute every break-in with stealth and, well, science. I have a way of sneaking past everyone and everything.
Letting out a sigh, I make my way silently down the hall and into the kitchen. Naturally, because the odds have been against me ever since that day, Chase, Izzy’s dad, scary as fuck US Senator and all-around assassin, is sitting at the table, sipping his whiskey and staring at the wall like it holds state secrets.
I curse under my breath and stop walking. By my calculations, I won’t make it past the table without him pulling a gun on me. Even if I duck, scramble, or pull my own gun, I simply won’t make it, so there’s no need to make a mess of their kitchen.
“Heard you the minute her door opened.” Chase takes another sip. “Haven’t fixed that creak for a reason.” He points to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
“Fuck.” I wipe down my face, exhausted from the medicine and long nights that have me waking up covered in blood.
“Heard that too.” Chase looks up, his neck tattoos gleaming in the small kitchen light. His lips pull back into a broad white tooth smile that looks more concerned than predatory.
Strange.
I narrow my eyes.
Either way, I’m screwed, so I pull the chair out and sit, leaning forward, resting my arms on my knees.
I know I look exhausted.
“I cut down the tree.” He starts with that? Really?